


living in the sun

by enbytim



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25361791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbytim/pseuds/enbytim
Summary: "boys like mickey don't get to have things like this, but that's not gonna stop him."or: ian's away on a camping trip with rotc and mickey goes to find him
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 18
Kudos: 108





	living in the sun

**Author's Note:**

> this was _supposed_ to be a quick oneshot and then it got away from me so now here we are
> 
> this is dedicated to fran and briget, the two biggest season 2 enthusiasts i know!! i hope you guys like it!!!!

The clock on the wall is mocking him again.

Mickey knows it is.

How can it possibly be doing anything else? Working at the Kash and Grab in general, let alone being stuck here on the hottest day of the fucking _year_ is his own personal hell, so why _wouldn’t_ time itself be fucking with him? Every goddamn _tick-tock-tick-tock_ that manages to rattle its way out of the cheap plastic clock pinned to the wall is proof of that. Every single _second_ that gets gobbled up, digested and processed - into a minute, an hour, a day - but never seems to actually _go_ anywhere is a test. The universe’s way of testing his already threadbare patience.

Threadbare because he’s already spent the last three hours of his shift today listening to Linda bitch about pretty much everything under the goddamn sun. There really isn’t a whole lot that she _hasn’t_ bitched about since she got here. He’s heard it all. From the fundraiser she’s helping out with so that the PTA moms at her kids’ school will still do favours for her, to her mother-in-law’s declining health - and why she even _wants_ anything to do with her shitbag husband’s family, Mickey _doesn’t_ know - to how much she hates this store and having to work here.

They can agree on that, at least.

Christ, but he wishes Gallagher were here instead. Sure, he’s a pain in the ass, and yeah, he goes outta his _way_ to be a distraction whenever he thinks he can get away with it, but at least he knows how to shut the fuck up when Mickey really _needs_ him to.

Maybe the heat is finally getting to him and making him even grumpier than usual. Who fucking knows? But, even so, it’s not like he can really be blamed, given just how fucking _sweltering_ it is in here. He’s sweating in places he didn’t even know it was possible _to_ sweat. Linda’s way too cheap to have any kind of aircon, and the drinks fridge she has him stocking - _again_ \- can only do so much to combat how uncomfortable he is.

Mickey drags his forearm across his forehead in an attempt to wipe away some of the sweat, but all he really manages to do it is spread it around and make himself feel even worse. Somewhere behind him, on the opposite side of the room, he hears Linda start bitching again. What exactly it’s about this time, he doesn’t know. He’d started tuning her out about an hour ago and now all she is is noise. Really fucking _annoying_ noise, yes, but still just noise.

God, he can’t fucking _wait_ to get outta here. He’s not exactly sure what he’s gonna do with the rest of his day, but anything is better than being here. Linda raises her voice, and he takes a deep breath, resting his head against the glass of the fridge door. It’s cool against his skin, although it does fuck all to help. If anything it makes things _worse_ because he’s suddenly aware of all the places that aren’t cool.

“Are you even listening to me, Milkovich?” Linda’s shrill as fuck voice cuts through his misery and he barely bites back a groan.

In an act of what he personally thinks is pretty impressive self control, he manages to resist throwing the can of beer in his hand at her. Instead he lets out a heavy sigh and glances over his shoulder - not that that does any good, because there’s a rack of shelves in between them. It means she doesn’t see the face he makes, though, so honestly maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

“What?” He snaps.

“I _said_ ,” Linda huffs indignantly, like _she’s_ the victim here and not Mickey’s ears for having to actually listen to her, “that once you’ve finished whatever it is you’re doing over there, you can go home.”

“Huh?”

“Honestly, I don’t know why I bother.” He hears Linda mutter.

Mickey risks a glance at the clock, just to make sure the universe isn’t pulling yet _another_ joke on him. It wouldn’t exactly be a surprise. Just another thing in a long line of ways to screw him over. But, no. He’s still got two hours of his shift left, so what the actual _fuck_ is Linda talking about?

Apparently the universe isn’t _that_ cruel, though, because a second later Linda’s shuffling down the aisle towards him. He doesn’t bother moving, doesn’t bother trying to pretend he hasn’t been sitting here with his head shoved through the open fridge door for the last half hour. For once it seems that Linda doesn’t care, because she comes to a stop beside him and frowns down at him, but doesn’t say anything about it.

Maybe the heat is getting to her, too.

“We haven’t had a customer in two hours.” Linda says, folding her arms under her chest. “There’s not much point in staying open. So, when you’re done…” she trails off to gesture vaguely at him, “with this, you can go home.”

She says it like she’s being reasonable. Like her reasons for wanting to close up early are completely normal and that she’s doing it for the both of them. As if Mickey’s too dumb to realise she’s only doing it so she doesn’t have to pay him.

Still, it’s not like he’s gonna _complain_. He’s not exactly gonna voluntarily stick around to suffer her bad mood more than he has to. He’ll take a temporary cut in wages if it means being free of her, honestly.

He slowly straightens up, dumping the now-empty box on the floor beside him so he can slowly get to his feet. As he moves, the fridge door slaps shut and the heat from the rest of the room washes over him again, reminding him of just how goddamn _hot_ it is. It’s sticky, and humid, and makes him feel like he’s drowning in sweat no matter how many times he tries to wash it away. He looks to Linda, scratching at the stubble lining his jaw - he’s gonna need a shave soon because the way it makes his skin itch is unbearable - and raises an eyebrow.

“That mean I can go?”

She glares at him, but after a couple seconds of silence manages a nod.

Mickey doesn’t need to be told twice. He brushes past her, shrugging off his security vest as he goes and dumping it in an empty box just inside the door. After a brief pause, just in case she wants to get a last minute complaint in, Mickey pulls the door open and steps outside. It’s even hotter out on the sidewalk than it had been inside, and Mickey lifts the collar of his t-shirt to wipe at his forehead.

As he starts the walk back home, he lets his mind wander - the streets are practically deserted because of the heat, so for once he can relax. As much as he ever lets himself, anyway. Linda letting him go two hours early means he’s suddenly got a lotta extra time on his hands, and truth be told, he doesn’t really know what to _do_ , now that he’s out. He could go home, maybe. Terry’s outta town for the weekend on a job, so he could easily go home and sit his ass on the couch for a couple hours. If he’s quick about it, he might even have control over the TV. Or, at least until Mandy gets bored and starts bitching at him to change the channel.

But… he doesn’t really _want_ to go home. He’ll just be trading one place he hates for another, and at least at the Kash and Grab he has access to all the free food he wants. Well, okay, no. He _would_ have access to all the free food he wants if Gallagher were the one working the register instead of Linda. But, no. Gallagher has some bullshit camping thing with ROTC this weekend, and he’d fucked off, leaving _Mickey_ to deal with the bitchiest woman in the entire world. Mickey still hasn’t decided if he’s gonna forgive him for leaving or not, because on one hand he’s gotten pretty used to the regular sex. Okay, fine, _good_ sex. But on the other hand… _Linda_.

And, okay. If it was really just about the sex then Mickey wouldn’t give it a second thought. It’s been fun, Gallagher, but see you around. But it’s not, is it? Against his better fucking judgement he’s spent a lotta time with… _Ian_ … over the past three months. Time where they’re _not_ just fucking. Where they just. Hang out. Or, whatever. Mickey isn’t exactly sure when… _Ian_ … went from being someone he sought out when he wanted a quick fuck to someone he actually kinda _likes_ spending time with. He _definitely_ doesn’t know how he let it happen. How they’d gone from casual fuck buddies hooking up in the Kash and Grab’s freezer when they could risk it to… _Friends_. Who spend time together. Willingly. Who sneak into the dugouts sometimes just to smoke weed and drink beer and, once, because Gallagher looks him right in the eye and _dares_ him, piss on first base. Who know each other’s schedules, or whatever, and gravitate towards each other because it’s summer and they have nothing better to do.

Mickey hates it.

Hates it even more that he _doesn’t_ hate it. He should. Should’ve put a stop to whatever the fuck this is the second he’d realised it was happening. It’s stupid. It’s _dangerous_. Nothing can ever come of it - he’s gonna have to shut it the _fuck_ down sooner or later before it has a chance to blow up in his face.

He just… he doesn’t want to.

It’s nice.

Mickey hasn’t really had a lot of ‘ _nice’_ in his life. He knows it’s gonna have to end eventually because that’s just the way life _is_ . But for now… for now he’s gonna savour it. Try to take it for what it is and not think too hard about it, because that’s a one way ticket to second guessing himself. Mickey’s never really known what it means to be truly happy. Not with Terry warping and twisting and turning it into a weapon to use against him. But right now? Right now he might. For the first time in his life he might _know_.

A car horn blares beside him, making him jump and snapping him outta whatever the hell that was. He glances up and to his left, squinting against the sunlight reflecting off the hood of the car. It becomes a scowl when he realises who it is grinning at him from the driver’s seat, and he quickly flips Mandy off.

“Get in, asshole!” She calls.

He shakes his head and carries on walking. He’s only a couple blocks away from home, he doesn’t want _or_ need Mandy arguing with him before he absolutely has to, thanks.

“ _Mickey_!” She says, slowing the car down to a crawl and following him at a snail’s pace as he hurries down the sidewalk. “C’mon.”

“Fuck off.” He snaps back. “What’s the _point_ \- it’ll take, like, two minutes to walk there.”

“Suit yourself, dickbag.” Mandy huffs at him. “At least _I’ve_ got working aircon.”

She revs the engine, no doubt to show off, but all she actually succeeds in doing is showing off how unhealthy her car sounds. Mickey doesn’t envy her, at _all_. Mickey watches her speed off again with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head when she turns the corner at the end of the street.

Whatever. He’s happier on his own.

Mandy’s car is parked out front when he finally gets home roughly ten minutes later. The rear wheels are sticking out from the curb a little, like she’d parked as quickly as possible. No doubt so she could wait for him on the small strip of a front porch. Joke’s on her, though, because he’d taken his sweet time, knowing she’d get bored and go inside long before he actually showed up.

Mickey paused at the gate, fingers curling around the rusted metal as he stares up at the house he’s lived in all his life. It’s falling apart in places - there’s a hole in the top step that he’s pretty sure Iggy made falling off a skateboard he’d stolen from a kid in his class, and the lock on the front window is busted. 

Just one more shithole in a neighbourhood full of them. But this one is _his_ , is the only place he has to go, and he hates it. Revulsion, hot and acidic, coils in his belly. Down in the very marrow of him, underneath everything else, thrums the need to get out, to run away, to _leave_. It’s not like he’s never thought of it. Thought about where he’d go and what he’d do, who he’d _be_. 

He’d even started planning it out, once. Back when his mom was still around, when he had someone to sign permission slips for school field trips - when he had someone who _cared_ \- he’d gone to the cultural center on a field trip and pocketed a map when no one was looking. Had spent fucking _hours_ pouring over the thing, figuring out where he’d go and how he’d get there. How he’d get away from Terry.

Chicago had been an awfully big place when he was seven.

He knows the truth, now. There _is_ no getting away from Terry.

“I’m ordering pizza.”

Mandy.

He shakes his head to clear it and focuses on her instead. She’s got the front door propped open with her hip and is glaring down at him.

“And?”

“You want in?”

He pushes the gate open and kicks it shut behind him, ignoring the way it groans. Shakes his head as he stomps up the path towards the porch steps.

“Nah,” then, because he has manners, “thanks.”

Mandy frowns at him. “You going somewhere?”

“No? What’s it to you, anyway?”

She shrugs, stepping outta the way so he can get inside. He can practically _hear_ her thinking as she trails after him into the living room. Then the sound of her footsteps stop, and he glances over his shoulder, expecting… he’s not entirely sure what, to be honest. The fact she hasn’t started hounding him about something, _anything_ , yet is kinda weirding him out a little.

Mickey raises an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“I am.”

“Huh?”

“I’m going out.”

He shuffles over to the couch, kicking his shoes off before dropping down and letting out a long, relieved sigh. “Thought you said you were getting pizza?”

“Changed my mind, asshole.”

Mickey shrugs and rests his head against the back of the couch. Not like he really gives a shit either way. At least if she’s gone, he’ll have the house to himself for a while. His shirt clings to his back and he shifts, trying to get more comfortable, opening his eyes to find Mandy staring at him.

“ _What_?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“The fuck I am.” He grouses. Even if he is, what the fuck does it matter? He just wants five minutes to himself, _Jesus_. 

“Whatever. There’s money on the counter, if you change your mind about the pizza.”

He’s not going to, but the mention of money makes him frown. There’s no way _Mandy’s_ leaving him her own cash, so where…

“Iggy?” He asks.

Mandy nods as she starts gathering up her shit. “Before he left with Dad.”

Mickey doesn’t envy Iggy in the slightest. Once upon a time, Terry would’ve expected _him_ to go on that job too. The only reason he _isn’t_ is because his gig at the Kash and Grab brings in a regular paycheck. Mickey might fucking _hate_ his job, but he’s not gonna give it up and go back to going on runs with the others.

He’s left alone for a couple minutes while Mandy disappears into her room. He doesn’t _do_ anything with those few minutes of blessed silence, other than stare blankly up at the water stained ceiling, tracking the spider web of cracks from one corner of the room to the other.

“Okay, I’m going.” Mandy says, coming back out of her room and slamming her door shut behind her.

Mickey’s not exactly sure why she cares, or why she seems to think he _wants_ to go in there, but whatever. He’s not gonna argue about it. Merely rolls his head a little so he can watch her put her shoes on.

“Probably won’t be back until tomorrow, so don’t wait up.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

She glances up from pulling uselessly at the back of her sneaker to flip him off. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You noticed!” He says, voice saccharine sweet and bordering on obnoxious.

Mandy gives up on her shoe, standing up straight so she can run a hand through her tangled hair. “Fuck you, I’m leaving.”

“So you keep fuckin’ _saying_ , and yet here you are.”

She doesn’t bother answering, just grabs the purse she’d shoved everything into and stalks over to the door. “Bye!”

Mickey breathes out a quiet sigh when she’s finally gone. It’s rare that he actually has the house to himself, there’s always at least one other person around, taking up space. It feels kinda weird, the silence that falls when he actually listens for it.

Would probably be kinda nice, too, if he actually had something to _do_. As it stands, he’s just got an entire afternoon camped out on the couch watching shitty daytime tv ahead of him. He shifts again, pulling his shirt away from his back as he leans forward for the remote balanced on the edge of the coffee table.

The shirt sticks to his stomach instead, and he grimaces. A shower. Before anything else, he needs a shower.

Shitty daytime tv will just have to wait.

Mickey spends a solid half hour in the shower, taking his sweet, _sweet_ time for once. The water pressure ain’t great, and someone’s used almost all the hot water so he barely manages to hit a temperature above lukewarm. Not that he really wants to; the cold water feels pretty fucking amazing after steeping in his own sweat all day.

After quickly shuffling into his room and dumping the clothes he had bundled in his arms onto the growing laundry pile strewn across his floor, Mickey runs a hand through his wet hair and blows out a breath. Now that he’s actually, y’know, _clean_ , he doesn’t really feel like sitting around in front of the tv. Which brings him back around to the problem of what to do _instead_.

He thinks about it as he roughly towels his hair dry. Runs through a quick list of all the places he could go - the dugouts, the abandoned building a couple blocks over, that spot under the railroad tracks where he liked to shoot shit sometimes. Hell, he could take Iggy’s money and treat himself to a slice of pie at that shitty diner over near Cermak. He’s only been there once, and the guy who owns the place seems like a complete asshole, but… the pie had been good.

It’s just that… he doesn’t. Really. Wanna do any of that shit on his own. He will _never_ admit it, not to anyone, but he’s kinda gotten used to having Gallagher around. Of having someone to do this shit _with_. He can _hear_ Terry calling him a whiny little bitch, but _fuck_ him. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt Mickey, and there’s no real harm in thinking it when he’s completely alone.

If he were to be completely honest. With himself. He might… admit… that he misses Gallagher. Jesus fucking _Christ_ , maybe he is a whiny little bitch after all. It’s been _three days_. He needs to get a fucking grip. Doesn’t make it any less true, though. He _does_ miss Gallagher.

With a resigned shake of the head, he starts rooting around for clean clothes. They’re kinda in short supply at the moment, though, so he ends up settling on a pair of boxers, a pair of mismatched socks, because no matter how hot it is he is _not_ walking around this house barefoot, _thanks_ , and a t-shirt he’d hacked at with a pair of scissors last week. Who gives a fuck what he looks like, it’s too hot to put proper clothes on, and he’s just gonna end up sweating again anyway.

When he’s done, he goes to hang the towel back up in the bathroom to dry and brushes his teeth. Then he goes to get a beer from the fridge, grumbling under his breath when he sees they’ve only got the really cheap shit his dad drinks all the time. He closes the fridge door without grabbing a can, huffing through his nose as he scans the kitchen. His eyes land on the money Iggy's left behind, a neat little stack of bills resting on the counter by the sink.

Mandy’s car keys sit beside them, leaning up against a half-empty glass of water. Mickey stares at them for a minute, mind racing as he chews on his bottom lip.

 _Fuck it_.

Before he can second guess himself, he reaches out and grabs both the keys and the money, keeping them clutched tightly in his hand as he backtracks to his room. He struggles into a different pair of jeans than he’d been wearing earlier and fishes his wallet from the others. There’s nothing in it until he stuffs the cash inside, and shoves it in his back pocket.

The keys jangle against his palm as he strides through the living room to rescue his shoes from under the coffee table. He’s halfway through pulling them on before he has something of a realisation. He doesn’t have any idea of how he’s actually gonna see Ian. Oh, sure. Mickey knows where he is, because of course he does - Gallagher had looked him right in the fucking eye and asked him if he’s ever been to Camp Reinburg. Like his answer was ever gonna be anything other than an eyeroll and a muttered “fuck off”.

So, he knows where Ian _is_. He just doesn’t know how to _get_ there. 

He leans back on the couch, wet hair prickling against the back of his head as he thinks. They don’t have a computer, so he can’t look it up that way. There’s no way he’s hauling his ass all the way to the library just to use one of theirs’. If he _really_ wants to go, he’ll need… a map.

Mickey springs to his feet, the force of it pushing the couch back several inches. For the first time in a _long_ time, he curses how messy his room is as he picks his way through the clothes on his floor over to the bedside table. The mattress creaks under him as he drops down, the top draw of the bedside table sticking when he tries to open it. It had already been broken when he’d got it, and time has done nothing to help with that.

It finally springs open after a couple tense seconds of him wrestling with it, papers spilling out across the floor. He huffs, annoyed, but doesn’t bother picking any of them up. It’s still tucked at the very back of the drawer, behind a folded up comic book, and he pulls it out carefully. He balances it against his thigh, fingers smoothing over the creases as he stares down at it blankly.

Eventually he shakes himself out of it, although the sight of his mom’s handwriting - chicken scratch and faded - makes his breath catch in his throat. He doesn’t let himself read any of it, forces himself to ignore the written conversations between his mom’s chicken scratch and his illegible crayon scribbles. Makes himself concentrate on finding Camp Reinburg on the map, muttering under his breath as he scans the page.

When he finally finds it, all the way up near Inverness, he follows the highway back to Hillside with his pointer finger. Then he lets out a slow breath through clenched teeth, nods once, and folds the map up again. He carefully tucks it back inside the drawer, gathers the papers that had dropped to the floor up in a messy pile and shoves them in after it, slamming it shut with a resounding thud.

He lets himself sit and stare at his bedroom wall, just for a moment. At the posters passing silent judgement on what he’s about to do. Mickey rolls his shoulders, rubs his nose with his thumb, and nods again.

Okay.

Time to go, if you’re going, Milkovich.

When Mickey _finally_ leaves his house, three minutes later, he doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder.

By the time Mickey _finally_ pulls into the already pretty crowded parking lot, he’s in desperate fucking need of a drink. Or six. He’s spent the better part of the last two hours stuck in Mandy’s shitty car, with its staticy radio, and its lumpy seats, and a busted brake pedal that doesn’t always work right. He is ready to be outside again, even if it does mean having to leave the AC behind. It’s a little after seven, now, so while the sun is bearing down on them and leaving the sky a multicoloured mismatch of apricots, forget-me-not blue, and corals, it’s a lot cooler than it had been. 

It still feels like Hell, don’t get him wrong. But… an upper floor, maybe, not quite so close to the actual flames.

Mickey drums his fingers against the steering wheel, squinting against the sun that’s glancing off the building on the other side of the lot. It’s not like he’s ever actually _been_ to a campsite before, so he has no idea what the building is for, or anything, but the blinds in the windows have been pulled down.

With a sigh, he picks up the remnants of his gas station dinner - a couple granola bars, a tube of barbeque pringles, and an energy drink - and climbs outta the car. He slams the door behind him, but doesn’t bother locking it. No way the kinda people who come to places like this are gonna want anything to do with a car as shitty as Mandy’s. He wanders over to a nearby trashcan and dumps the remains of his food, wiping off some of the crumbs against his thighs. Takes a quick look around the parking lot for any signs telling where to go. He vaguely remembers Ian mentioning camping by a lake, ‘cause he was excited about swimming in it, or some shit. All Mickey knows is that he’d talked about water.

He spots a noticeboard in front of the building, some kind of light brown wood that glows almost golden in the evening sunlight. As he wanders towards it, glancing over his shoulder the whole time just to make sure there’s no one else around - there isn’t, he’s alone - he realises that there is a huge fucking map on it. He doesn’t even bother reading any of the writing dotted across it because he really doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like he’s trying to scout the place out, or anything, he just wants a patch of blue to tell him where the lake is.

There are three. Marching across the middle of the map in an almost completely straight line.

Mickey groans and lets out an irritated sigh, scratching at his jaw.

Fuck _sake_.

Fine. Whatever. He’ll just… pick one and hope for the best.

After looking for the obnoxious _YOU ARE HERE_ marker, he sighs again and then sets off.

The things he does for Ian fucking Gallgher.

He calms down a bit as he gets further away from the parking lot. Sure, it’s hot as balls, and yeah, he might be questioning his fucking sanity for even being here in the first place. Because seriously? What the _hell_ is he doing? But actually being here, just… existing, with no one yelling at him, or looking at him like he’s the scum of the earth, is kinda nice. Quiet.

He doesn’t get a lotta quiet moments.

So, if he takes his time wandering through the trees, listening to the sounds of nature - birds chirping in the distance, insects buzzing in the tall grass surrounding the path he’s found himself on, the leaves of the trees rustling in the slightest of breezes - then no one else needs to know. He might also be taking his time because the trees offer at least a little shade from the sun overhead.

Mostly, though, he’s doing it because he’s trying to waste time. Now that he’s here, and he’s gonna see Gallagher, he’s gonna have to explain what the fuck he’s doing. And seeing as he doesn’t actually _know_ what he’s doing here, that’s kind of a problem. He shoulda thought about it on the drive up here, in all honesty, but he’d been so focussed on getting the right exit, and not getting lost, that _this_ particular problem had slipped his mind.

He is very much aware of it _now_ , though.

Gallagher is gonna ask him, in that stupidly overeager way of his, what the fuck he’s doing here. And he doesn't know.

Mickey runs a hand through his hair and blows out a heavy breath.

What does he even blame this on? Boredom? Making fun of Gallagher's military kink? Avoiding the question altogether and bullying Ian into proving he actually knows how to swim?

He knows which one he _wants_ to do. Fuck, this was a stupid idea. No way Gallagher's not gonna read too much into it and try to make it _a thing_. Which it's not. It’s _not_. 

It's totally a thing.

 _Fuck_.

It's too late to back out now, though, isn't it? He's here. He _wants_ to be here, too, as much as he'll never admit it out loud. As nervous as he is, he's also _excited_. He _wants_ to see Gallagher and make fun of him in his ROTC uniform, and tease him about living like a caveman out here, and doing it just to see Ian sm-. 

Well.

He's excited, is the thing.

Ridiculously, _stupidly,_ excited.

Which is probably why he speeds up a little when he hears voices further down the path.. He’s careful to keep his distance, though, and makes sure to keep to the edge of the path, just in case. There are enough trees lining this particular trail that if push came to shove, he could probably hide behind one and not get spotted.

As he gets closer, the voices get a lot louder. Not that Mickey’s actually paying attention to whatever’s being said. He’s too focussed on the glimpses of blue he keeps catching through the trees ahead. Mickey’s never… really… _seen_ open water before. Or, if he has then he can’t remember it. Iggy used to talk about going on trips with mom sometimes, back when she was still around to _do_ that kinda shit, and before Terry had made it crystal fucking clear that she wasn’t to be talked about. Ever. So, who knows? Maybe she _had_ dragged them out to the lake once, when his brothers were driving her mad in the house, and Mickey was barely old enough to walk, and she had Mandy slung on one hip.

If she had, he’s never gonna know about it.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Where he is right now feels kinda magical. That might make him sound like a little bitch, but it’s the truth. The soft golden light filtering through the trees and glinting off the slivers of water he can see is just… pretty.

The dust cloud that gets sent up when he catches the toe of his shoe on a rock, however, is _not_. Mickey coughs, covering his mouth with a fist to try and keep quiet. He doesn’t really care about getting spotted - he’s not an idiot, he’s gonna scope the place out before barrelling in to find Ian - but he isn’t actively _trying_ to draw attention to himself. He knows how people look at him. What they _see_. He doesn’t really feel like dealing with it right now, so. 

It doesn’t take long to realise the people ahead of him _aren’t_ the people he’s looking for. The old as balls lady sitting in a fold out camping chair, sunning herself with what looks like a sheet of aluminum foil and wearing aviators that are way too big for her face is clear fucking indicator.

Mickey sighs, because of course it’s not that easy. Why the fuck would it be? There’s a fork in the path, veering gently to the left in one direction and angling sharply to the right. It takes Mickey a second to think of which way he needs to go, and the woman’s head snaps up as he comes to a quick stop to consider it.

Right.

He needs to go right. Without giving the old lady a chance to say anything - because she is definitely gearing up to say something - he sets off again. Scuffing the soles of his beat up boots against the rocky ground, he glares off into the distance. It’s late enough now that the sun is starting to set - only just, though, it’s very much still high in the sky - but from this angle it’s directly hitting the back of Mickey’s neck.

There’s no way he won’t burn. At least a little.

He could always find a tree to sit under for a while; it’s not like there aren’t enough of them. And he would, he _wants_ to, just until the sun sets a little more. But if he does, if he waits even longer than he already has, then the sunlight’s gonna be gone before he finds Ian, and that’s not a risk he’s willing to take. It’s one thing to wander around in the daylight when he can see shit, and it’s something else entirely to try doing it at night when he has no idea where he is.

No. He’s gotta keep going, possible sunburn and all.

Still, he thinks as he kicks at nearby rocks, at least he’s most of the way there already. Even if Gallagher _is_ at the third patch of blue - which would be just his fucking luck, wouldn’t it - he’s already over halfway there. It’ll take him, like, an hour at most. 

He can do an hour. 

He doesn’t need the full hour.

Hell, he doesn’t even have to trek all the way to the third lake. He knows way before he even gets _close_ to the camp that he’s in the right place because of all the yelling. Drills? What’s the difference between getting yelled at by some old wrinkly fucker and going through military drills? _Is_ there one?

Mickey’s never really understood Gallagher’s weird obsession with getting into West Point - something he apparently shares with Lip, judging by the twenty minutes Ian spent bitching in between fucks the other day - and being here really is not helping him to, either. He’s been sitting under a nearby tree for, like, thirty minutes now, walking that tightrope between staying out of sight while still being able to hear shit like a goddamn expert. He _is_ an expert. So far all he’s heard is a guy that looks like he’s got an entire tree branch shoved up his ass shout a lot.

Unless _that’s_ the part that Gallagher is into? For all that he literally never shuts up, it’s kinda hard to tell exactly what’s going on in his head sometimes.

Speaking of Ian, Mickey still hasn’t seen him - he hasn’t been actively _looking_ , or anything, because he figures with hair that colour he’ll be easy enough to spot. He knows Ian’s around somewhere, though, because he’d heard one of the other kids say his name earlier. It’s whatever. He kinda likes sitting here anyway. The tree is big enough that blocks out most of the sun, giving him at least a little bit of relief.

The back of his neck is hot in a way that can only mean one thing, and he just hopes it’s not bad enough to be noticeable. The last thing he fucking needs is Mandy questioning him even more than she’s already going to when she figures out he filled the gas tank. She’s like a dog with a goddamn bone when she thinks she’s onto something. He doesn’t wanna give her _more_ to chew on.

Mickey has no idea what the time is. It’s not like he’s got a phone, and his shitty watch - the one he’d been wearing since he was, like, thirteen - had finally given up the ghost a couple weeks ago and he hasn’t gotten around to replacing it yet. When he’d climbed outta the car, the clock on the dashboard had read something close to seven-fifteen. At a rough guess he’s been out here for at least an hour and a half, so it’s gotta be closing in on nine o’clock.

Almost as if the universe is on his side for fucking _once_ , the same guy who’s been yelling instructions at people shouts again. “The time is now twenty-one hundred. You have an hour’s free time and then I want you all in bed, you hear me? No exceptions. We’re heading out early tomorrow.”

There’s a general chorus of agreement and then the group disperses, filtering through the small collection of tents that have been set up around them. Mickey leans back against the tree trunk, bark digging through the thin layer of his shirt and into his shoulder blades, holding his breath like _that’s_ gonna help make him invisible. He stays that way for a couple minutes, breathing shallowly through his nose as he waits for them to disappear completely before moving.

Careful to avoid the actual camp, because he has no fucking intention of getting caught _now_ , he crosses the dusty trail and starts picking his way through the grass and weeds on the other side. It doesn’t take long for him to start getting glimpses of the water through the trees. He hadn’t realised just how close they were to the water’s edge because the tents had been blocking the view, but it only takes him like two minutes to get to the treeline.

Mickey’s not exactly a geography expert, but even he can tell that this lake is a pretty small one. He can see the other side, and the people lounging around on it, pretty easily even if he can’t make out any real details.

Apparently the universe really _is_ being kind to him right now, because this side of the lake is almost completely empty. Save for one person sitting on the edge of the water, pants rolled up to his knees as he stretches his ghostly pale legs out in front of him, his boots resting at his side. He’s only wearing a white wife beater, and even from this distance Mickey can see the freckles that have blossomed across his shoulders in the handful of days it’s been since they last saw each other.

He takes a second just to look. Just to watch the way Ian looks as he gazes out at the water, how relaxed he is here. How at ease he is. A gentle breeze ruffles through his hair, and he tilts his head back so he’s staring up at the sky. Mickey thumbs at his lip, fighting a smile as he meanders towards him.

“You plannin’ on blinding someone with those things, man? Should be considered a safety hazard.”

Ian jerks at the sound of his voice, his left elbow slipping in the sand slightly as he swings his head around to stare at him. He’s wide eyed and open mouthed, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Mickey?”

He quirks an eyebrow and sniffs. “You blind _yourself_ with those things, Gallagher?”

“Fuck off.” Ian huffs, mouth curving into a small smile anyway. “The hell are you doing here?”

Mickey shrugs, refusing to meet his eye as he shuffles over to where he’s sitting. He drops down onto the sand beside Ian, squinting at the way the sunlight is reflecting off the water.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Ian says, but the way it sounds coming outta his mouth makes it mean the opposite.

 _This is exactly where you should be_.

Still, Mickey can’t help but dig a little. “You want me to go?”

“ _No_ , I don’t want you to-.” Ian trails off when Mickey grins, just a little, and shakes his head as his smile grows. “You’re an asshole.”

“So it’s been said.”

“What _are_ you doin’ here?”

Mickey risks a glance over at him, and immediately regrets it. He should be used to it by now, just how fucking… beautiful, fine, _whatever_ … Ian is. All the time, really, but especially now. The sunlight catches his hair at such an angle that it seems to almost come alive - reds and oranges bleeding into one another in a way that kinda reminds him of the sunset on a really clear night. There’s not so much a dusting as an entire snowfall of freckles across the bridge of his nose and over the apples of his cheeks. They make him look younger. Like the kid he is and not the adult he desperately wants to become.

He realises he’s staring when Ian raises his eyebrows at him expectantly, so he sniffs again and rubs at his temple, turning to look out across the water instead.

“So, you gone swimming yet?” It’s a terrible deflection, and he knows it. But, well. It’s the best he’s got to work with right now.

Gallagher rolls with it, thank _fuck_ , shifting a little so that their shoulders knock together. Mickey watches him dig his toes into the sand, feels him let out a sigh.

“A couple times.”

Mickey hums, nodding slowly as he reaches into his back pocket to fumble for his pack of smokes. “You find the rest of your people down there, or what?” He asks, huffing out a laugh when Ian shoves at him.

“Yeah, actually.” Ian says, stealing the cigarette from between his fingers and lighting up with the cheap zippo he’d pulled from… somewhere.

He inhales deeply, holds the smoke in longer than he needs to, probably just to prove that he _can_ , and then lets it roll out of his mouth. They watch it curl and coil its way into the sky before Ian nudges him with his elbow and offers him the cigarette.

“Why?” Ian asks after a moment of silence, the two of them just… breathing together for a while. He waits until Mickey’s looking at him to continue, mouth pulling into a lopsided smile. “You wanna meet ‘em, too?”

Mickey snorts softly and takes a slow drag. “Hell no. One’a you is enough, thanks.”

He doesn’t mention that he can’t swim, because that’s not something that Gallagher actually _needs_ to know. It doesn’t bother him, he’s not _ashamed_ of it, or anything. It’s just another fact of life. He doesn’t know how and even if, for some reason, he wanted to learn - which he doesn’t; when the _fuck_ is he gonna go swimming - he’s not exactly gonna ask anyone to help him.

Ian waggles his fingers impatiently, rolling his eyes when Mickey huffs at him. “I dunno. Think of all the shit we could do if I had a clone.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Ian seems content to keep the cigarette in his mouth, sucking on it so the end burns bright orange in the dusky sunlight. For all that it’s spent the entire day beating the hell out of him, the sun is rapidly sinking behind the opposite treeline. Sunset arrives without much warning, that way it always does in summer, like a windup toy that’s suddenly been set off.

“Well,” Ian says slowly, lips curling around the cigarette as he stares out across the water, “we wouldn’t have to close the store every time we fucked.”

Mickey chokes on a laugh, quietly coughing as he watches Ian smile smugly to himself. He raises an eyebrow. “That the best you got? Us banging more?”

“Didn’t say it was my _only_ idea. Just that it’s relevant to both our interests.”

“Oh, it is, huh?”

“You don’t think so?” Ian asks, raising his own eyebrows, that stupid fucking smile still in place. 

Mickey hears the promise in it, that slow kinda confidence that Ian’s been settling into all summer like he knows something Mickey doesn’t. It’s as endearing as it is fucking frustrating, so Mickey rolls his eyes and scratches at the bridge of his nose.

“Man, shut the _fuck_ up.”

Ian laughs quietly, and Mickey doesn’t miss the way he glances at him from the corner of his eye, but neither does he do anything about it. He knows what it means, knows what Ian _wants_ , but he also knows that neither of them are in any real hurry to actually get there.

They fall into a comfortable silence for a while, passing what remains of the cigarette between them as they watch the sun sink completely behind the tall trees on the other side of the lake. They’re down to the filter by the time it really hits Mickey that they’re watching the fucking sunset together.

Watching the sunset has never been _meant_ for guys like Mickey Milkovich. 

Watching the sunset is the kinda thing meant for guys like Ian Gallagher - guys who have stars in their eyes, and galaxies in their hearts, and who _genuinely_ believe the world can be good.

And that? That should worry him _way_ more than it does. That should _bother_ him way more than it does. Because guys like Mickey Milkovich aren’t allowed to have things like this. They’re not allowed to sit and watch the stars slowly bloom across the sky with a boy they kinda like.

But he’s here, and he can feel the soft brush of Ian’s shoulder against his own every time he inhales, the gentle stroke of Ian’s pinky finger against his hand as he shifts his weight to get a better look at the sky.

Ian looks over at him, biting the inside of his bottom lip as he studies him. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Being here.” Ian ducking his head is the only reason Mickey lets himself smile. “I just… thanks.”

By the time Ian glances up again, Mickey’s smile is gone and he’s back to looking at the water. He shrugs, _trying_ for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile.

“Didn’t do it for you.”

It’s a lie. He knows it. Ian knows it. But neither of them say anything about it, because that might just be too far, even for Mickey.

“My hour’s almost up. You sticking around? Could sneak you into my tent, if you want.”

Mickey pretends to think about, dragging his eyes slowly back to Ian’s face and cocking his head to the side.

“You gonna snore?”

Boys like Mickey Milkovich don’t _get_ to have things like this, but that’s not gonna stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you all had as much fun reading it as i did writing it, it was nice to get away from a bigger project for a little while. there probably won't be an update to [it all comes out in moron](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647437/chapters/59551768) this month because i'm gonna try and get something out for mickey's birthday instead
> 
> title comes from "out there" from the hunchback of notre dame soundtrack bc i had it on repeat the entire time i was writing this <3
> 
> anyway as always, come yell at me on my socials: [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/floristmick)


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